Why so Serious?
by The Lovely Cynic
Summary: ."Even in death, she was serious. Well, he could fix that." A little bit of the Joker's family history...


**Why so Serious?**

**Warnings: **Very, very strong violence and gore.

**Author's Notes: **This is very different from what I usually write. But the idea wouldn't go away after watching The Dark Knight. This is what I think would've happened if the Joker's father were a drunk. Um… enjoy?

And this is partly dedicated to **SlvrSoleAlchmst1 **for our mutual love of Batman!

--

His mother held up the kitchen knife protectively. She was poised for attack, eyes wide and wild like a trapped animal. Her hands were shaking, tears streaming down her face in silver rivers. They dripped off of her nose and smudged her too-thick make-up. The black mascara and eyeliner dribbled down her eyes with her tears, some of it in thick, hard clumps. It smeared so badly, it made her look like some sort of grotesque clown.

His father was swaying dangerously, feet hardly able to keep him in their alcohol-influenced state. He started laughing; laughing at the woman in front of him. His voice was high-pitched and manic, sounding more and more like a cackle as it progressed. He charged her—though, he more fell on her than anything—and she dropped the butcher's knife, shocked. His father caressed his frightened mother's face, a wicked grin plastered on his face.

And he sat back and watched. He curled up into the far back corner of the small kitchen, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He started rocking slightly as he watched his father pin his mother to the dirty, yellow, peeling wall.

"Honey…" his father breathed onto the woman's neck. She was sobbing openly now. "There's no need to be afraid." He dragged his palm down her tear-streaked face, further smudging her running make-up.

His father started laughing again—a horrific, choking, phlegm-ridden laugh—as he bent down to pick up the knife. He twirled it in his hands, handle in one palm, point in the other. He hummed "God Save the Queen" under his breath. As the song advanced, he moved the knife faster, digging it more and more into his palm. The blood started flowing as if the blade weren't even there. It spattered onto the white tile floor, dripping off of his father's pale hand or the red, glinting butcher's knife. It formed gruesome shapes and streams on the tile, spots and tiny rivers joining together.

"You know I'd never hurt you," he hissed against her wet skin. She was far too struck with panic to move or say anything. Everything was immobile and unmoving save for her tear ducts. His father removed the blade from his hand, dragging the dull edge across her throat. It left red smears across her sun-starved skin in a horrific contrast. You could visibly see her shudder and inch away from the icy metal.

His father stopped suddenly. "What, are you scared of me?" the man's voice started shaking, both of his hands ceasing their previous movements.

His mother was frightened; terrified. Her eyes grew wide, her whole body shaking. She looked as if she was trying to say something, but her terror caused the words to stick like honey in her throat.

"Smile for me, honey."

A simple request, hissed against her ear. But she couldn't. Her face contorted into one of pain rather than a smile. The man waited patiently, twisting the knife around so that the sharp end was gently scraping directly across her jugular vein. She couldn't smile. All she could do was cry.

"Smile!" his father shouted, completely overtaken by his drunken rage. Unfortunately, his hand had moved quicker than his mouth. The blade had slit the woman's throat. She convulsed for a moment, horrendous gurgling sounds all she was able to make. Her eyes widened and then rolled into the back of her skull. She lifted one hand to touch her neck, but it only made it half-way. His father took a step back, allowing her to drop to the ground with a dull, heavy, _dead_ thump.

And he just watched, still rocking in the corner as his mother's blood pooled on the ground. It matted her hair, staining the blond locks a deep, crimson red. It merged with his father's, flowing together seamlessly. Her eyes lazily rolled back from her head, life extinguished from them. They stared at him. Even though they were dead eyes, they still bore holes into his soul, as if accusing him that this was _all his fault_.

His father started cackling again. It started out softly, only sharp, little bursts of laughter coming from his throat. But it quickly escalated. It grew into a massive, ugly, loud, wheezing sound that resonated off of every wall in the house. It was far clearer without his mother's endless sobs. "You," the man pointed at him with the crimson stained knife. The fluorescent lights caught on the blade, causing ruby spots to move on the walls. "Smile." A laugh was still in his voice as the woman's blood seeped between his toes.

He couldn't. And even as his father made his way over to him, he couldn't. Bloody footprints were left in the man's wake. "Why so serious?" he whispered, grabbing a fistful of the boy's curly, blond hair and lifting his head up. He shoved the sharp, stained blade into his mouth. It tasted salty, coppery… metallic. He still didn't smile.

His father continued to laugh. "Why so serious?" the older man's voice was harsher this time and he jerked at the young boy's hair. Before anything else could be said, a sickening slice was heard and the ring of metal; two.

He could barely feel it as the knife sliced through the muscle, fat and skin of his cheeks. He could taste it, though. He could also feel the blood run in large gushes down his throat, pulsating in time with his heartbeat. The thick, coppery liquid in his mouth started to overflow and dribble down his chin.

His father stood up and stumbled, leaving the bloody knife on the ground. He tripped his way through the kitchen to the living room, leaving his hard, demonic laughter to echo throughout the room.

The boy stood up, head light and airy and completely in shock. He went into the bathroom. There, he stared at his reflection, a look of utmost intrigue and curiosity on his face. There were two long, red, bleeding, lopsided, angry-looking gashes on either cheek. As he gently dabbed the excess blood away—not shying away from the pain, but rather _embracing _it—he saw the gashes for what they were.

A permanent, gruesome smile.

He gently tapped at the cuts, surplus fat and muscle tissue occasionally coming with the blood. "Why so serious?" he whispered to himself, still dabbing away. "Why _so _serious? _Why _so serious?" He kept mumbling to himself, barely moving his cheeks. He stared at his reflection for hours, it seemed, the same phrase being murmured over and over again.

He started laughing. It was a cold, hollow, demonic laugh that mirrored his father's. He found it funny; the pain, the cuts, the blood, the _phrase_. He found it all irresistibly funny.

Eventually, the gashes stopped bleeding. When they did, he put the wet, red, sticky towel down on the floor. He stared at himself again, cocking his head to the side. "Why so serious?" he mumbled again, finding it just so _funny_. He began cackling again. It was hysterical, that sentence.

He walked briskly out to the kitchen, still mumbling that singular expression over and over again. He grabbed the knife, still stained with his blood and his mother's blood. His mother still lay there, still in the same position, still _staring_. "Why so serious?" he asked her body and began laughing again. Even in death, she was serious.

Well, he could fix that.

He knelt by her side, grabbing her hair and tugging it up. He stuck the knife in her mouth and made two incisions in her cheeks. They were identical to his own. Now, even in the cold grip of death, she would be smiling. Just like he would always smile, as well.

He took a couple more strides into the living room. His father was awake and watching television. Some generic sports program blared on the small, black and white TV. He could tell by the older man's body language that he had sobered up significantly. He sat straighter and his head wasn't lolling from side to side. The boy walked behind the couch, twirling the knife around on his index finger. He leaned down, breathing against his father's ear. "Why so serious?"

And he smiled. _Grinned_. The wounds reopened and blood spilled down his cheeks and dripped onto his father's face, tiny red bead after tiny red bead.

All that was heard after that were his father's screams and _his _laughter.

**--End.**


End file.
